Sorry

His face is a broken heart, clenched and anguished, a rictus of sorrow. He crouches, eyes shut, filthy, in the doorway under the scaffolding, sheltered with his flimsy, bulging plastic bags out of the rain. 

But he isn't crying - no tears stream down his cracked skin, and he might just be sleeping, or passed out drunk, with a face that, at rest, resets to a tragedy mask from a life of too much misery.

I open my umbrella, and keep walking.